


Santa’s Not Real

by C_D_Wofford



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Love, Childhood, Community: spn-spankings, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Growing Up, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:22:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28765506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/C_D_Wofford/pseuds/C_D_Wofford
Summary: So maybe Sam is a little older than the traditional age for this discovery. But come on. Is it really that ridiculous, considering what his family deals with on a daily basis? Unfortunately, not everyone has that context, and it looks like Dean might be facing the music for getting just a little too involved.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this was originally a trade based on a prompt from the wonderful Tosca and beta’d by both her and Edge (thank you, you beautiful humans!!!) meant to come out for Christmas. But I am a nurse working 60 hours a week on night shift and it didn’t happen, so better late than never right? Enjoy!!

So maybe twelve was a little older than the traditional age for this realization. But hey, it’s not like he did anything normal in this stupid life, anyway. If ghosts and monsters were real, why was it so ridiculous to believe that an elderly bearded elf left presents under trees every year? Sam crammed his books into his bag, teeth gritted together so tightly they hurt. He could feel his face burning; the laughter in the classroom had not yet quite died away, even after the teacher had given out homework assignments and the bell had rung.

  
Jeff Tanner, sitting two seats ahead, hissed a particularly nasty snicker. The mean-spirited gleam in his piggish little eyes made Sam want to eviscerate him. But this was a brand new school, and his sensible side won out. He didn’t know how long they’d be stuck in this podunk town, so it was best not to make enemies too fast. He snatched the zipper up on his backpack, barely stopping to hiss a curse under his breath when the pull came loose in his hand. Just great. He stuffed the pull into a side pocket, knowing Dad would expect him to fix it rather than buy him a new bag.

  
Sam was so absorbed in his inner rant, that when he went to sling his backpack over his shoulder and turn to leave, he ran forcefully face-first into the solid form of the Tanner kid. The boy was two years older than Sam, having been held back a few grades, but what he lacked in academic prowess he more than made up for in mass. And here he was, leering in Sam’s face with breath that smelled of the bologna and pickles he’d had for lunch. Gross.

  
“Jeff. Move.”

  
Jeff didn’t. Sam rolled his eyes and sidestepped to try and pass by, but the bigger boy matched his move. The rest of the classroom was quickly emptying out after the closing period of the day. A twinge of uneasiness replaced Sam’s frustration as he saw the last student’s ponytail bobbing out the door, leaving him alone with the bully. He rolled his shoulders and tried to go around the other way...blocked again. This time Jeff took a step forward, too, causing Sam to bump into his broad chest.

“Dude, come on. Very mature.”

  
The red-headed menace belly-laughed, and Sam cringed in disgust as some spittle landed just under his left eye. Tanner jabbed a beefy finger hard into Sam’s narrow chest with each word as he leaned closer.

  
“Mature my ass. You give a whole new meaning to the words ‘Santa Baby’. What’re you gonna ask him for this year, Samantha? What? Hey, you listen to me when I’m talking, Santa Baby.”

He grabbed a fistfull of Sam’s jacket, lifting him onto his toes, and shook him. Sam’s hands balled tightly into fists, his trembling lips threatening to betray the furious emotions within. Santa not real. One less thing to believe in, one less good thing in the world. One more thing to be tormented over. His stomach churned, his face on the verge of crumpling.

  
“Let go. Shut up, just shut up and leave me alone. I don’t wanna hit you.”

  
“Ha! Hit me?”

  
“What the HELL is going on here?”

Dean’s booming voice -purposefully so, to sound like Dad’s- sounded from the doorway. Sam twisted his head awkwardly to get a glimpse of him. His chest was heaving, the muscle in his jaw jumping with what boded ill for the bully manhandling his little brother. The break in Sam’s voice had caught Dean’s ear from the hallways as he’d been on his way to pick Sammy up on the way out.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but if you know what’s good for you, you’ll let go of my brother and get your pimply ass out of my sight.”

  
“Dean, don’t start-”

  
“I ain’t starting it, Sammy. He did that when he laid a damn finger on you.”

  
Equally matched with Dean in size and weight, Jeff didn’t see a reason to feel threatened. His only response was to laugh as he slammed Sam into the edge of the desk behind him, causing Sam’s spine to bend painfully backwards and knock his breath from his body. Jeff let him go as Sam doubled over, arms hugging himself as he gasped in pain. That nasty, fish-out-of-water panic pulled at his lungs. Jeff smirked at Dean.

  
“What? I let him go,” Jeff sneered, his every syllable a blatant challenge.

  
The next few minutes were a blur for poor Sam, huddled on the floor, trying to keep his already-battered book bag out from under foot of two teenagers locked in deadly struggle as he simultaneously tried to regain his voice and shout at Dean to break it up. Jeff got a pretty good right hook in, but that was his only shot. In no time Dean had him bent over a desk, pummeling the kid’s kidneys until he howled like a tom-cat. A crowd of excited middle and high schoolers were gathering around the door of the classroom to watch the fight, and the horrific noise of chairs scudding across the floor in the fight coupled with Dean’s shouts of satisfaction and Jeff’s screams of abject cowardice rapidly got the attention of the teachers.

  
And then there was the all-too-familiar scene; the caterwauling bully taken away sobbing to the school nurse as if he was the precious victim, and Dean and Sam taken to the principal’s office for The Phone Call. Sam’s teeth were chattering with the after-effects of the adrenaline as he sat in the office next to his brother, waiting for the principal to finish getting the story from the teachers who’d broken up the fight in the first place. Dean was grinning, the audacious rascal.

  
“Showed ‘em, Sam! Dude, he’s gonna be peeing blood for a week. What was his problem, anyway?”

  
“I said something that made me look like an idiot,” Sam mumbled.

  
“What? That doesn’t sound right. You’re the smartest kid in class. Definitely smarter than that pig.” The tinge of concern in Dean’s voice evoked a prick of annoyance in Sam.

  
“I said something about Santa, okay? Turns out that’s the one stupid thing that doesn’t exist.” He crossed his arms and sank back in his chair despondently. Dean blinked, silent for a long moment. Then he said quietly, “Oh.”

  
“Boys?” The principal sighed, turning to them after dismissing the random passerby teacher and janitor who’d just given their ‘eye-witness accounts’. “Care to say anything?”

  
Dean perked up and shrugged, a mischievous smile just returning to the corners of his mouth.

  
“Sure, what do you wanna hear? Some punk was messing with my kid brother, so we threw punches. That’s about it.”

  
The principal rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking as if he’d like to be elsewhere.

  
“I understand Mr. Tanner was being unkind and that he has a reputation for being difficult, but he’s in the nurse’s office in tears. Mr. Stevens hasn’t exactly had a glowing report of your attitude in class lately, either, Samuel. The situation became extreme and violence is never a way to solve our differences.” He was picking up the phone as he spoke, an air of finality about him. Clearly he wasn’t interested in prolonging the investigation any further. “Dean, the school will be suspending you for three days. Samuel, you weren’t involved in the fight so there’s no consequences this time; however, the teacher may give you an extra assignment at their discretion to let you think over your attitude in class today. Maybe you’ll keep it in check next time and avoid this entire situation.”

  
Sam opened his mouth to retort but instead clamped it tightly closed and looked away, his jaw tightening. Nothing he said would make any difference. Adults always thought they were inerrant. Besides, the principal was already talking to Dad, explaining his version of things and the school’s disciplinary decisions, and the damage was done. A moment later the administrator looked up at them from behind his oversize desk and held out the phone.

“Samuel? Your father wants to know if you’re alright.”

  
Sam reluctantly reached for the receiver.

  
“Hi, Dad.”

  
“Sam. Tell me what happened.”

  
Sam took a deep breath and steadied his voice against the sudden urge to cry again.

  
“One of my classmates was trying to start something with me. Dean didn’t-”

  
“Dean’ll speak for himself, son. You’re alright, aren’t you? Are you hurt?” Dad sounded dead tired; Sam could hear the sleep in his voice like when he’d been on the road for sixteen hours or more.

  
“No. I mean yes sir, I’m fine. Just pushed me a little.”

  
“So you threw a punch.”

  
Suddenly the anger was back. How dare Dad accuse him? It was always his or Dean’s fault; no other kid was ever to blame for anything. Dean sat up a little straighter and watched, closely, as Sam’s lips tightened and his narrow shoulders stiffened.

  
“Nope.” His voice was short and clipped.

  
“Nope?” Dad’s tone held a warning in it.

  
“No sir,” Sam ground out, the syllables measured and deliberate.

  
There was silence on the other end of the line for a few beats. Just when Sam started to worry, Dad’s gravel rasp came on again.

  
“Fine. Put your brother on.”

  
Sam held the phone out to Dean, realizing as he did that his chest felt tight and empty now that he was out of the line of fire. He had expected a harsh correction, a promise of punishment, but the complete lack of recognition threw him off. He took a deep breath to stretch out his lungs, running his hands through his mop of shaggy hair as he watched Dean.

  
“Hey, Dad! You comin’ back soon? ...Right. Twerp was shoving Sammy around. ... Hell yeah, I did. … Stupid’s with the nurse. No broken bones, he’s alive...No sir. ...No sir. ...Yes sir, I remember. ...Okay. See you soon, Dad.”

  
Sam rolled his eyes. How could he still sound so eager to see the man who had no doubt just promised to tear him a new one? He appreciated that Dean hadn’t mentioned the particular reason for today’s episode of bullying. It didn’t matter in light of the situation, of course, but he was grateful anyway.

Dean slid the principal’s incident report over to Sam to sign after he’d finished with it, getting up to leave with a wink.  
He hefted the old canvas bag over his shoulder as he got up, and Sam felt a fleeting pang of guilt for being mad about his broken zipper; at least he had a back-pack. Half the time Dean didn’t even bring books, and when he did an old duffel did the job. Dean didn’t care about school or his image there, he never had. He had the looks and charm to get by with the ladies, and that was good enough for him. But school was important, and parents were supposed to make sure you had what you needed. It was one more reason Dad did not deserve parent of the year.

  
Dean’s long, bowed legs carried him out of the old building without wasting any time, and Sam had to jog to keep up. Dean flipped the bird jauntily at the school once they were outside with a wink and a grin for his brother. Sam didn’t talk on the walk back to the crummy little broken-down house they were renting, even when Dean tried to lighten the mood with a crack about “getting tanned for tanning Tanner.” He dragged his feet when they came in sight of the rickety place, the white paint peeling off like dead skin and showing the weathered gray underneath.

  
“Hey...you okay, Sam?” Dean asked, letting his too-cheerful commentary die to scrutinize his little brother for the first real moment they’d had alone since the fight.

  
“Yeah dude, I’m fine. Barely knocked me over.” Sam dug his hands deeper into his pockets and shrugged, looking down at the dusty snow crust coating the hems of his jeans.

  
“That’s not what I mean.”

  
Sam knew this tone of voice. All levity on hold, all brotherly banter put on the shelf. When Dean used it, Sam always knew he was safe. Safe to say anything, safe from teasing, and safe from Dad. He was quiet for another moment, but Dean waited, adjusting the strap of the duffel on his shoulder and leaning against the ancient picket fence around the uncut yard.

  
Sam shrugged, uncomfortably, but he wasn’t brushing off the question.

  
“Yeah, I guess. I’m just really sick of lies. We’re always either telling them or being told them, you know?” By Dad, he was thinking, but he didn’t say that out loud. Starting an argument with Dean was not what he wanted. He needed his brother, especially today.

  
Dean nodded.

  
“Well, that’s one more lie off the list for you then,” he said, but his voice was gentle.

  
“Dean...thanks. I wish you hadn’t gotten in a fight over me, but thanks.” He raised his eyes up from the ground to meet Dean’s, shining brighter green now for the fresh snow dusting his spiky hair.

  
Dean grinned.

  
“Hey, it’s what I’m here for, kid. One thing I’m good at is makin’ trouble, and protecting pain-in-the-ass baby brothers.”

  
“That’s two things, but yeah.” Sam said, a little half-heartedly. “What time’s Dad coming home?”

  
“Should be here tonight. Said to heat up some beef n’ beans; I think I have enough left over from the food money this week to get a six-pack to stick in the mini-fridge.” His eyes lit up when the thought occurred to him, and Sam thought he knew why.

Dad usually let him have a beer after a particularly rough day, and he would be needing it to dull some very real pain tonight if Dad actually came back, which unfortunately was near certain. The one time Dad showed up when he promised was when he had an ass-whipping to hand out, Sam thought bitterly. Dean was tough and he took his licks like a man, but you’d be stupid if you didn’t wince at the idea of a beat-down from John Winchester, no matter how big and brave you were.

  
“Yeah, okay. I’ll grab a couple cans of dinner while you take the fake ID and get the beer. We’ll meet back up and have dinner ready before he gets back,” Sam said, smiling at his brother with all the warmth he could muster. “I’ll get some hot chocolate too. It’s getting pretty cold.”

  
“Sounds like a plan, Sammy! Beat ya back here.” He winked and spun on his heel, sprinting up the icy walk to throw his bag unceremoniously through the door without even stepping inside. Dean hopped over the crunchy winter sludge to the roadside to get a head start, whistling a Christmas song. Sam felt his stomach turn when he recognized the tune.

  
Santa Baby.


	2. Chapter 2

John scrubbed a hand over his face, turning the brights on against the flurries coming down quicker in the beams of the Impala’s headlights. It was getting darker so much earlier now, and it did nothing to help with drowsiness after the past seventy-two hours he’d had. The radio murmured occasionally through a snow of quiet static; it was comforting in a way, and he didn’t need the racket of music. Not tonight. John reached for the half-empty flask on the seat beside him and took a liberal pull. He’d never drink while driving in front of the boys, but he knew his own limits, and right now he just needed a damn drink. The white face of the dead woman he’d been too late to save wouldn’t leave his memory. When he looked at her, pinned to the ceiling with a blade through each of her limbs and one through her heart, he could see nothing but his own Mary, wreathed in infernal flames.

Twelve years now. It never got easier, and each year when the nights closed in early, the darkness seeped and settled into the wound that would never heal. But there was nothing he could do, nothing but keep going. Keep carrying on, keep trying to save people, and keep trying to raise his Mary’s sons into men she’d be proud of.

He sighed, heavily, taking one more wistful sip from the flask before setting it aside and putting both hands on the wheel. He steeled himself for the task in front of him as he pulled into the overgrown drive now covered in a soft new blanket of snow, and put the old car in park to rest for the night. The faint pulsing glow of a television was all that lit up the window of the front room, the rest of the house was dark. John sat for a beat, taking advantage of the last remnants of warmth in the car as it faded away without the blow of the heating vents. He was stalling, if he was honest with himself. Too often, it seemed as if his return was more in the vein of wrath and judgement than the reprieve and comfort it should have been.

His arrival hadn’t gone unnoticed, though; a few seconds later the feeble porch light blinked on and a light shone through the small kitchen window. There was nothing for it. He might as well take the plunge. John reached into the back seat to grab the bag of used weapons to take them in to be cleaned. Dean would be seeing to those later, after the business at hand. And with that, he stepped out into the cold and started up the creaking steps to the door.

“Hey, Dad!” Dean was standing in the door in sweatpants and a warm Henley, scanning his father eagerly for signs of victory as he stomped slowly onto the porch. “How was the hunt? Did you bring it down?” He reached out and took the heavy bag of guns and knives from John, quickly, lightening him of the load. John said nothing, only shook his head as he turned to shut and lock the door, kicking off his snow-crusted boots in the entryway. Dean’s shoulders drooped.

“Oh.” Then, “Don’t worry, Dad. We’ll catch it in the next town. Sammy’s heating up dinner, if you’re hungry.”

John could see his youngest slinking around the kitchen doorway, watching from afar with a sort of wary distrust. His heart sank, and he didn’t feel like he had the strength for this. But he shrugged off his coat, hung it on the nearest bent nail, and plowed ahead.

“I think we have something to deal with, first. Keep it warm for us, will you, Sam?”

John didn’t have to glance at Sam again to feel the burn of an adolescent scowl. But he did, however, catch Dean’s look in Sam’s direction. It was a pleading look, as if begging his brother not to make this harder than it already had to be. It seemed to work, because Sam retreated into the kitchen without a word. Dean set the weapons bag down in the entryway to be dealt with later. He fell into step behind John back into the single bedroom the three of them shared. Dean turned to close the door behind them. Privacy wasn’t something often afforded the Winchester men and seldom even considered, but it occurred to John that Dean was trying to protect Sam from the sounds to follow. A feeble effort, but touching, and it made this next part all the more difficult.

John sank onto the edge of the bed, resting his hands on his thighs a moment. Dean stood in front of him, wide stance, hands clasped behind him, ready and attentive.

“I didn’t want to do this tonight, Dean,” John started.

“No sir, I know you didn’t. I’m sorry.” The honest contrition in Dean’s open expression made John’s heart quiver, but he carried on strong.

“Honestly I was going to drop it. I know you were looking out for Sam, and I know that’s what I’ve asked of you. What I’ve trusted you to do. But I can’t give you both rules and expect you to live by ‘em, if I don’t stick to the damn things myself. If I get a phone call from school, unless it’s an emergency or one of you has been hurt, there’s got to be consequences. That’s the rule. I think you understand that.”

“Yes sir. I understand. Where do you want me?”

Thank God. John felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. Usually John would talk it out, reiterate every rule that had been broken, make the transgressor repeat their sins. But Dean was making this easy on him and moving it along. He accepted his punishment, he understood why it was needed, and now it was time to get on with it. No stalling. No need for a lecture. There almost never was, really, not with Dean. John nodded once and stood up, hands going to his belt buckle. 

“Over the footboard is fine.”

“Yes sir.”

John considered his son for a moment as Dean moved to obey, and decided to let him keep his pants up, at least for now; the soft fabric of thread-bare sweatpants wouldn’t offer the same protection as jeans might. John slid his belt free and doubled it, moving to Dean’s left side as his eldest lowered himself into position; hips squared with the beat-up old footboard, forearms resting on the quilt. “...Dad?”

John paused, meeting Dean’s eyes as the kid twisted to look up over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” He looked so young, his eyes wide and sincere, but John could see the strength and the man in him. There was no manipulation, no attempt to lessen his sentence. John got the feeling he wasn’t even talking about the fight at school at all. He was sorry for putting John himself through this. Tonight especially. John was still for a long moment and then cleared his throat, gruffly.

“Let’s get it over with, kiddo.”

Dean nodded, turning back to face the front, and John saw him close his eyes just before the first blow landed. The sound was loud and abrasive in the tense silence. From elsewhere in the house the TV volume suddenly swelled to full blast. The second strike took Dean off guard; his shoulders went taut and he let out a measured breath, but he didn’t move.

John put his left hand on his boy’s back. He didn’t count. He didn’t have to. He’d know when they’d both had enough. He worked silently through the familiar pattern, keeping detached track of each stage as Dean passed them. The heavy, uneven breathing. The little triangle of sweat that would form between his shoulder blades. The way his tight-clenched fists would unravel to clutch and grip fitfully at the bedcovers, his right arm curling slowly over his head after a particularly forceful lash cut at him. The soft grunt, near impossible to catch but to the trained ear. They were nearly there now. It was time to finish up.

John tapped Dean’s back, peremptorily.

“Drop ‘em.”

The air left Dean at the command, but he took the momentary reprieve as a chance to take a deep, tremulous breath as he straightened long enough to tug the sweats down, shivering as the cool air of the room washed over his reddening skin. He hated this modification the most, and John knew it, but it wouldn’t last long. Dean leaned forward once again, burying his burning face in the crook of his arm and steadying himself. John adjusted his hold on the belt and guided him a little further into position. He could actually hear Dean’s teeth grit together in anticipation.

“Last few, kid.”

Dean nodded into his arm, but didn’t say anything, and John had the sneaking suspicion his mouth was full of Henley. John raised the belt high, and brought it down with the loud crack of leather on bare skin. His strokes now were slow, spaced out, each farther apart and harder than the last. Dean’s shoulders heaved, his body trembling by the fifth lick, raising up on his toes by the seventh. John hated this. He hated it, hated the pain his son was in, and knowing he was purposefully, intentionally inflicting it. On the twelfth, there was the first sound. It was ragged, muffled, but John heard, and that was enough. He let the belt fall from his hand onto the floor, passing his hand over his eyes, wearily. He was spent.

“You did good,” he said, shortly, his voice sounding more like it was choked than terse. He turned his back to give his son a moment to gather himself, gazing out the tiny window as if he could see anything through the velvet dark pressed to the pane. He turned at a rustle behind him; Dean was dragging his clothes back up almost before he was upright, trying to hide the pained hiss that sprang to his lips. John tipped his face toward the lamplight with a gentle hand under his chin, reading his boy. Dean’s eyes were wet, but still bright, and his voice and lips now steady when he offered John a small smile.

“How’s a beer sound, Dad? Got some on ice.”

Something felt like it broke loose in John’s chest, and he couldn’t help the little chuckle as he tousled Dean’s hair and pulled him close for a one-armed hug as he turned toward the door.

“Oh you do? You’d better watch it with the booze, son, or it won’t just be beer you’d like to have on ice.”

Somehow the dark had lifted just a little with that smile. It would descend again, later when the boys lay fast asleep and the quiet and cold of the winter and memories tried to seep through the cracks in the old house. But not now. Now, as Dean was teasing a suspiciously red-eyed Sam about his geriatric volume preferences and messing up his hair, and Sam was scowling but sticking noticeably close to Dean’s elbow...everything was okay. The salt lines were laid, the food piping hot, and the beer ice cold as promised. And best of all, there were smiles on his boys’ faces.

For now, for this moment, the dark would wait out in the cold tonight.


End file.
